


Blackout

by Dlvvanzor, Living_In_a_Fantasy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Harry has a stroke, M/M, Not dealing, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dlvvanzor/pseuds/Dlvvanzor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_In_a_Fantasy/pseuds/Living_In_a_Fantasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had acquaintances who had overdosed- he'd even overdosed himself, once- but he'd never visited them and if he had he'd have been visiting a corpse.  Harry, though, was breathing.  She'd been vital and loud, if infuriating, but now she had overdosed but she wasn't dead, she was... well, drooling on her shoulder, at the moment.  Insanely, he kept expecting the madwoman to straighten up and wipe it away.  Some small voice in his head, one that had been quiet for a long time now, said 'this could have been you.'  And, as it had always been, it was right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackout

It was a fairly mild day, for March, and John and Sherlock were on their way home. It had been a quiet, work-free day, so they'd gone out for lunch and so nice that they had then decided to walk back to the flat.  In a fit of affection, Sherlock took John's hand, to which John responded with a smile and a squeeze.  It was all very touchy-feeling and, Sherlock admitted reluctantly to himself, perfect.

They were about halfway home when John's mobile rang.  Making an apologetic face, he fished it out of his pocket.  He didn't recognize the number so, thinking it could be a case for Sherlock, he answered.  "Hello?"

John's attention was no longer on Sherlock, so Sherlock allowed it to drift elsewhere.  His eyes shot back to John's face when he felt John freeze beside him.  John had stopped walking, stopped breathing for a moment, actually.

"What?" John asked, voice tense.

John didn't reply to his questioning look, so Sherlock stooped and pressed his ear against the other side of John's phone.  The person on the other end was just waiting  for John to speak and Sherlock was gaining nothing but a crick in his neck.  He straightened up and focused his laser attention on John's face.  Eyes, crinkled but not laughing, blank, mouth... Harry.

Sherlock's movement besides him suddenly reminded John that Sherlock was there. He squeezed Sherlock's hand tightly, looking up at him, opening his mouth to try and form the words but he couldn't quite manage it.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he read John's face.  Knowing that John would be past the ability to do it for himself, he grabbed the phone and rang off, stashing it in his pocket.  Then he snatched John's other hand and squeezed them both to the point of pain to try and focus him, staring into his eyes for any other scrap of information.  "John."

"Sherlock," he said faintly.

"John," he repeated more firmly.

John blinked up at him.

Sherlock didn't know what else to say.  John looked so lost that Sherlock couldn't even guess what had happened except and 'bad' and 'Harry.'  Really bad, actually, not just bad.  "Is she dead?" he asked bluntly.  He cringed at himself.  "I mean.  She..."

"No," John managed, voice quiet.

Sherlock moved his hands up to John's face and held it.  More gently, he said, "What happened?"

Now that he'd lost Sherlock's hands, John's own hands fumbled for something else to hold on to. His fingers tangled in Sherlock's coat, grasping the material tightly. "She...she overdosed."

Sherlock pulled him in without another word.  "We'll go see her," he said decisively.

"She's bad." He said against Sherlock's coat. "It's really bad."

He had one hand in John's hair, the other arm wrapped tightly around him.  "How bad?"

"He said she most likely won't be able to live alone again. The damage..."

Seizures, heart attack, kidney failure, respiratory arrest... brain hemorrhages... If she was awake enough that they'd been able to determine that she was brain damaged, they'd had her stabilized for a while without phoning John.  Harry must have taken him at his word that he was done with her, at the end of their fight a month ago, the result of her graduation from alcohol to Sherlock's drug of choice.  Sherlock grit his teeth and tightened himself around John.  Maybe he could absorb him and it wouldn't hurt John as badly.  "She can come live with us, then."

"I..." But he didn't know what he wanted to say. He pressed closer, trying to vanish into Sherlock's embrace and pretend that call hadn't just happened.

"You're a doctor and I've experience in the area.  We can take care of her."  He kissed John's forehead hard.  "A stroke, right?  So she could improve.  You know about brain plasticity."

"I...yes."

"Cocaine overdose is bad, but it's not the worst," he said as soothingly as he could.  "Alcohol would have been worse.  Heroin, too.  This is just a normal stroke.  You know about strokes," he reminded him gently.

"I should have made her go to rehab."

"What?"  Sherlock pulled back but didn't let go, holding the doctor by the shoulders.  Truth be told, he was a little scared to let go.  "No.  You can't force someone to go to rehab.  They'll just find drugs there."

He stared at Sherlock's chest, not finding the energy to lift his eyes. "I should have done something."

Sherlock ducked to see him better.  "You did."

He shook his head. "I didn't."

"You did.  You tried to stop her at every stage leading up to this, and then you screamed at her for a solid fifteen minutes a month ago."

"But then I stopped trying."

"And?"  He shook John just a little.  He didn't think it would help but it was worth a try.  "It was already too late.  There is nothing you could have said."

"But..."

"There is literally nothing," he said again.  "I lied.  At the hotel?  Well partially.  I said we could move in with her, or Mycroft could force her into rehab.  But I'm not lying now- neither of those things would have worked."

John said nothing.

"You could have spent every day with her, and she'd still have found a way," he said without a hint of doubt.  He didn't know that was true but truth was irrelevant for once.

"Okay."

"You know this," he asserted again.  "They have to want to stop.  She didn't.  You couldn't have made her want to."

"Okay," he said again.

John was onto the repeated 'okay' stage.  There was no point in saying anything more.  Using his magical cab-hailing powers, Sherlock summoned their lift home without letting go of John, then directed him into it.  Once in the cab, John leaned into Sherlock, still looking blankly ahead. Logically, he knew Sherlock was right. Knew that nothing would have stopped Harry, and had known it for some time. But knowing that was different from seeing this happen.

Sherlock hesitated before he told the cab to take them home.

John leaned further into Sherlock and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He let go, stopped thinking, and just held on to Sherlock. Sherlock would take care of things, at least for now. Sherlock would know what to do.

* * *

It was a few days later and Harry was due to arrive at their house (along with several aides to help with the moving) within the hour and John, for one, wasn't sure if he was ready for it.

Sherlock took his hand. "You are."

John looked up at him. "I don't think I am," he disagreed.

Sherlock pointedly ignored this.

"It's my sister."

"Yes," he agreed.  The doorbell rang.  Sherlock stood, waiting to see if John was going to follow him downstairs and/or let go of his hand.

John did follow, but he didn't release Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock let the hoard of people in, and after several hours of what could best be described as chaos and lots of briefing, Sherlock and John found themselves on the sofa, staring at a woman strapped into a wheelchair, head lolling against the headrest.

John thought about standing and did not.  He abruptly discovered that it was difficult to slip into doctor mode when it was his sister he had to do it for.  Sherlock, sitting next to John on the sofa, simply stared.  He'd been very involved up to this point, but he hadn't said a word since Harry's arrival.  John had noticed, of course, but he didn't know it was because Sherlock was too busy thinking to speak.

Sherlock had had acquaintances die from overdose-- Sherlock himself had even overdosed, once-- but he'd never gone to see them and if he had he would have been visiting a corpse.  This woman, though, was breathing.  He'd known her before this, and she had been vital and loud, if infuriating.  She had overdosed and now she wasn't dead, she was... drooling on her shoulder, at the moment.  Insanely, he kept expecting the madwoman to straighten up and wipe it away.  Some small voice in his head, one that had been quiet for about nine years but had been vitally important last time it did speak, said 'this could have been you.'  And, as it had always been, it was right.  Sherlock felt John shift next to him and looked over at him.

"This will be fine," John said with determination.

Sherlock could be good, he knew.  He could be nice, and helpful, and supportive.  He could.  "She's drooling," he said distantly.  "I'll..."  He stood and snatched a tissue from a box an aide had left.  He approached Harry.  He dabbed at the drool.

John stood and followed, looking down at his sister, then back up at Sherlock. Yes, it would be fine. He was a doctor and he could handle this. And he had Sherlock. Everything would work out.

Sherlock finished dabbing.  He crumpled up the tissue and put it in Harry's hand for storage, as it was currently a fist.  Then he turned around and walked out the front door.

John watched him go, frowning, but didn't follow. He couldn't just leave Harry alone.

Sherlock didn't come back.

* * *

When an hour had passed, John figured he should text his partner and make sure he was alive.

_-Where are you?-_

_-I'll come back.  SH-_

_-When?-_

_-Soon.  SH-_

_-How soon?-_

_-I'll come back now.  SH-_

_-Ok-_ John stared at his phone, frowning. The abrupt departure had been...odd. In the time they'd known each other, Sherlock hadn't done anything like it.  He wasn't sure what to make of it.

Sherlock was at the front door, just outside it, and he had been for an hour, now.  He waited twenty minutes, then texted John again.  _-Locked myself out.  Let me in?  SH-_

John didn't bother replying, instead going down to open the door.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out.  He closed it.  Then he cleared his throat.  Pretending he hadn't just stood in one place for an hour, he cleared his throat one more time.  "Sorry," he said.  "Um."  But he couldn't come up with an explanation other than the truth.  And, if he were being honest, he didn't remember actually leaving.

John watched him. "Are you alright?"

"I, um."  He shrugged a little and came in.  "Freaked out."

John nodded slowly. "Okay."

He nodded too.  "Right."

"Right." John looked towards the stairs.

They were silent.

"Shall we go up, then?"

Sherlock glanced there as well.  "Yes."

* * *

Harry hadn't moved much since Sherlock had left. John closed the door behind them. "Tea?" he asked Sherlock in a desperate attempt to keep things normal.

"I'll do it," he declared.  He went straight to the kitchen and turned on the kettle.  Yes, normal functioning.

John followed, hovering in the doorway and watching as he made tea, gave him a cup, made his own.  Right. Normal. They could do th-

Quite suddenly, Harry made some kind of terrified screaming noise and Sherlock's heart just about stopped.  John quickly set his tea aside and went to her; after a beat and a moment to recover from such a startle, Sherlock followed.

When he arrived in the room, John was trying to calm her down which was a bit of a challenge as there was nothing frightening in the room.  Maybe the skull...?  Evidently, however, whatever scary thing her SNS had picked up on was gone, and she calmed down promptly.  John stepped away, looking at the floor.

"Takeaway for dinner?" Sherlock asked casually after several moments of very loud silence.  Because Harry was evidently now screaming for no reason.  He started to try to imagine what it might be like in her mind, if her mind was in there, and immediately stopped himself.

"Chinese," John managed.

"Right. I'll order it."  He went back for his tea.  "She can eat it if we cut it," he forced out from the other room.  They had been informed that she had chewed and swallowed in the hospital.

John nodded.

That was all Sherlock had to contribute.  He moved into the kitchen to order.

* * *

It had been a week of drooling, screaming, diaper-changing, food-cutting, and muscle-exercising, and Sherlock was... not adjusting.  Twice, since the first time, he had found himself outside the door to the flat, cold in a way that informed him he'd been outside for at least two hours.  Once, when Harry had done her now-common shrieking for no reason routine, Sherlock had dropped everything he was holding and run out of the room.  Those times, he had been able to come back only a few minutes later and clean up after himself.  He'd managed to change her incontinence pads once, but since then had frozen up whenever John asked him to change her.  He wanted to be good to John, truly did, but every time he saw Harry all he could think was how it could have been him.  So easily.  Alive but lacking the thing he would rather die than be without.  Screaming at some phantom terror, pissing himself, drooling everywhere, making John a wreck.  If he had ever doubted that he would stay clean, he didn't now.

John had expected things to be hard, but he hadn't expected things to be _this_ hard. Not only Harry, but Sherlock. He was a doctor: he knew what to expect with Harry (it didn't stop him from cringing sometimes, when he thought about the things he was doing for his sister. His _sister_. She shouldn't be like this, especially at her age), but then, unexpectedly, there was Sherlock.  He'd anticipated, fairly in his opinion, more help from Sherlock, but the other man seemed more spooked of Harry than John was. Sherlock did nearly nothing to help, seemingly barely able to be in the same room as her. And he wouldn't talk about it.  John didn't push, and the result was some distance between them and a tension that John really did not need now, on top of everything else.  That being said, he didn't want to push. Harry was _his_ sister, not Sherlock's.  He reminded himself of this rather a lot.  It did nothing to change the basic fact that he needed help.

Now, Sherlock was cutting a grilled cheese sandwich into Harry-sized bites in the kitchen, trying not to think about the current screaming fit John was dealing with in the other room.  They normally didn't last this long, and nothing was calming her down.  It was interesting, he tried to tell himself.  He could look at her all day and deduce nothing.  Well, nothing but her alcohol and drug use and incontinence and the fact that she'd had a stroke.  But not a thought, or a complex feeling, or a want or a need.  It was _interesting_. 

He was done with the grilled cheese and, holding the plate tightly in case his arms flailed or something, he proceeded to the sitting room.  He felt like he was dragging himself.

John looked up gratefully when Sherlock came in. "Sherlock, thank God. She won't...stop." He wasn't sure if Sherlock would have any new ideas, or if maybe they'd just have to wait the screaming out, but it couldn't hurt to ask. "Anything you can think of or will it just have to pass?"

He put the plate down and stared at her.  He pressed the fork into a piece and then delivered it to her mouth to see what would happen.

The screaming grew louder. John winced. Alright, food wasn't going to help, then.

Sherlock stuck his fingers in her mouth and retrieved the bit of sandwich before she could choke on it.  He felt like the cord on his violin that, when he was just learning as a child, had snapped and cut across his face.  When he'd drawn it too tight.

"Wait it out, I suppose," John muttered.

Sherlock stared at the damp sandwich in his fingers.  He squeezed it a little. 

Eventually, the screams died down.

Sherlock hovered there uncomfortably.

John let out a sigh and moved back. "Alright. We'll let her be for now. Try with the food again later."

* * *

John was in the sitting room when the convulsions started. He dropped the book he'd been trying to read and rushed towards Harry. His sibling instinct for once outweighed his medical one and for a few moments all he felt was rising panic in seeing this happen to his sister. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock was downstairs momentarily, pushed past any distracting Thoughts by the sound of panic in John's voice.  He saw Harry seizing and did what he'd been instructed to do: snap John out of it.  He grabbed John's bad shoulder and squeezed hard enough to hurt just a little.  "John," he said in a commanding voice.

That snapped John out of it, and his medical training clicked back into his head. He quickly went through the procedure, shoving the panic aside to deal with later.

Sherlock blinked, and when he opened his eyes he was in front of 221.  Again.  Cold like hours had passed.  Again.  He looked around, squeezed his eyes shut, and banged his head against the wall.  Bad.  _Bad_.

As soon as the seizure had passed, Sherlock had fled. John had stared after him in shock. This wasn't easy for him either, but he did what he had to. And Sherlock just continuously abandoned him. John went through the motions of checking Harry over, getting her situated and collapsing on the floor, scooting back until he could lean heavily against the sofa and stare blankly at the floor.

After the first time, Sherlock had stashed a key under a rock.  He didn't need to text John to let him in, which was good because he didn't know for sure that John would, at this point.  He replaced the key and entered 221, very slowly making his way up the seventeen stairs.  John was going to be furious.

John looked up when Sherlock appeared, but said nothing. He wanted to yell. Wanted to tell Sherlock that it wasn't fair of him to make John do this alone. To ask what was wrong with him, leaving his lover alone to deal with this all the time. Wanted to stand and shout and demand answers. But he was tired. He was so, so tired and simply not up for an argument. So he said nothing, looking away and ignoring him.

Sherlock kept his eyes lowered and stood there to give John another chance to yell at him.

John didn't yell. John didn't speak. John continued to sit there and ignore the fact that Sherlock was even in the room.

Sherlock remained another moment, and then he went to their bedroom.

When he was gone, John shifted, curling his legs up to his body and wrapping his arms around them, just for something to hold on to. It had just been over a week. Not even two yet, and he was already overwhelmed. It was Harry, and seeing her like this, and Sherlock pulling away...it was too much. All of it. Too much.

In their bedroom, Sherlock lay down heavily.  He'd ruined everything.  Might as well try to sleep.

John sat for a while. It was getting late, so he took care of Harry on autopilot, and hesitated before going to their room. Sherlock was in there. He didn't want to deal with...all of that right now. But he wanted to keep things as close to normal as possible, and not coming to bed would lead to even more tension that he couldn't deal with. So he went in, got ready, and climbed into bed on his side, facing away from Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes opened quickly.  John had come to bed.  He turned and stared at the back of his head, hard.

John was too lost in his thoughts to notice that Sherlock was awake. Now that he'd let himself think about it, he couldn't stop. Harry was never going to be okay again. And they'd never got on, but she was still his sister. All that spirit was gone now, forever, for something so stupid. He'd not been able to stop her no matter what he tried. And now she was like this, and now his entire life had changed. He spent most of his time worrying and looking after her. Sherlock had grown distant and wasn't helping. John felt like he was doing everything on his own. It was too much. And this was his life now. He could see this stretched on, for endless years, taking care of his sister while he and Sherlock grew farther and farther apart. How could things get better? In all likelihood, things would only get worse. He curled up tighter, biting his lip. This was going to be how he spent of the rest of his life. He couldn't do it. He couldn't keep doing this.

Sherlock's heart was beating hard.  John was curling up on himself, smaller and smaller.  He was meant to be reaching for Sherlock.  But not when Sherlock was being useless, pathetic.  Despite how Not Happy John certainly was with Sherlock right now, Sherlock ached to touch him, hold him.  John never, ever curled up.

John's throat grew tight, and he tried to force the emotion back. Tried to remember how to be professional and distant about this. But he couldn't. He'd finally been happy, happier than he could ever remember being, and that was gone now. Harry's overdose had taken that from him, had changed everything. Now all he had to look forward to were the days when Harry was quiet as opposed to screaming, or days Sherlock didn't flee the flat. He curled up impossibly tighter and took in a shaky breath.

Sherlock's brain was giving him nothing, _nothing_ , but Johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn.  He had to fix him.  He had to stop that damp inhale that was just inches away from a sob.  He...

The idea that his past week, this was what the rest of his life was going to be like, was what undid him. He couldn't stop his vision from blurring when the tears gathered in his eyes. He tried to hold his breath, to keep quiet, but that only made his body tense and shudder.

And with that, it simply didn't matter if John wanted it or not, anymore.  Sherlock practically threw himself to the other side of the bed and yanked John into his arms and folded himself all around him.  Maybe last time he just hadn't tried hard enough with his 'absorb John' plan.  He would try harder now.

"Don't cry," he begged him quietly.  "Please."

All that managed to do was rip a shaky sob from his throat. John twisted in Sherlock's embrace until he was facing the other man, burying himself closer. The sheer relief of having Sherlock hold him seemed to make it harder to hold back his tears. "I can't do this," he choked.

"John," he pleaded, although he didn't know what he was pleading for at this point. 

"I can't do this for the rest of my life." His breathing was ragged at this point. He pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder. "I can't do this by myself."

Sherlock gripped him tighter.  "Not by yourself," he mumbled.

"I need you." His hands clenched in Sherlock's shirt. "I need you and you're not...you're..."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, petting the side of John's face and pulling back to look at him.  "John?  I'm sorry.  I don't... it's never on purpose.  Blank out and _wake up_ outside the flat... I'm... I want to help..."

"I know." He was trying really hard to calm down, but it wasn't working so well. "Just...I need...it's like you're pulling away and with everything else it's too..." He shook his head.

He captured John's face and tilted it towards him, looking deeply into his eyes.  "I'll do better."  With a clever thumb, he wiped away a stray tear.

"Just don't go," he forced out.

"Like leaving you?" he asked in a small, horrified voice.  "Is that what you think?"

"You're not happy living like this. Everything is different and wrong and-" He cut himself off, because continuing on the train of thought would just get him more worked up. "And you've been so much more distant," he said, voice small and quiet.

Sherlock pressed his forehead into John's.  "It's never even crossed my mind," he said completely honestly.

John's sobs had at least grown quiet, though his eyes were still wet. He forced himself closer, needing to feel Sherlock, to be held by him. If Sherlock moved away now he knew he'd completely fall apart.

"I love you," he said, running long fingers down the side of John's face.

"I love you too," he breathed, letting his eyes flicker closed, focusing on the feeling of Sherlock's fingers.

"So.  It will be fine.  I'll... 'get a grip' and do whatever you need me to do."

"It's not fine," he denied. It wouldn't be fine anymore. Not this. "I just need you, here. I know this is hard for you even if you haven't told me why."

Sherlock ran a finger over John's lip.  Not a time to hold back, make John drag answers from him.  For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes decided to be forthcoming.  "She overdosed on cocaine, had a stroke, and now she can't feed herself," he said simply.  " _I_ overdosed on cocaine."

John's eyes opened slowly. "So it scares you."

"Yes."

He was... slightly calmer. The feelings weren't gone, but at least he wasn't crying anymore. "Okay.  I can understand that."

"But," he said with more certainty, "I will learn how to... not be scared."  It wasn't his most eloquent sentence.

"It's okay to be scared," John said. "I don't expect you to help with everything. You're not related to her."

"No."

"No?"

"No, I _do_ have to help you with everything.  I'm your partner," he said stubbornly.

John smiled, just a little. "I appreciate that."

Sherlock thought.  "We could hire a nurse," he suggested.  "I'm sure Mycroft has one enslaved.  If you occasionally got to leave the flat you would feel better."

John curled up closer. "I would," he agreed.

Sherlock pet his back softly.

The intense burst of emotion had left John even more exhausted. He closed his eyes, relaxing further under Sherlock's touch. "But if it gets too bad for you, tell me," he mumbled. "Or if you leave at least text me."

He hesitated.  "So far I've just been outside the door of the flat, every time I regain awareness of my surroundings."

"So all those times you've been gone for hours, you don't remember anything? Except coming back to yourself outside?"

"Correct.  But I'm certain that I didn't leave the stoop area.  The dirt patterns, you know."

John frowned. That sounded like something to worry about...

"I used to do that as a child," Sherlock hurriedly explained.  "It's how I responded when I panicked.  Nothing to worry about in and of itself."

"Seems like something to worry about."

He shook his head.

John sighed but didn't press.

Sherlock held him a little tighter.

* * *

It seemed like the shrieking fits were more common lately.  Sometimes, though, something was actually wrong, so they couldn't simply ignore her.  This time when one occurred, however, Sherlock and John were sharing a shower with all the wonderful implications.

John started when the shrieking happened and slipped, catching Sherlock's shoulders to stop from actually falling. He sighed, rested his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder for a moment, and pulled away.

Sherlock scrubbed at his face and put a hand on John's chest.  "You stay and... keep that."  He glanced down, then back up.  He smirked.  "I'll go determine if it's a false alarm or not."

"You sure?"

He nodded, kissed John briefly.  "I expect to pick up where we left off when I return," he said sternly.  He got out of the shower and started toweling off.

John stuck his head around the curtain. "Alright. Call me if something's wrong."

Sherlock hummed agreement, pulled on his pajama bottoms, and proceeded to the sitting room. 

As he hurried to what had become Harry's space, Sherlock gave himself a firm talking-to.  He could not run off.  John needed him.  John was expecting him back, and in a very appealing way.  He had promised John he would get over himself, and he'd meant it.  John was amazing and wonderful and good and brave so Sherlock would be, too.  John deserved to be happy.  He wanted to be good to him, and while he didn't actually care about Harry he understood that keeping her alive was mandatory to make sure John was okay.  John always said he (Sherlock) didn't usually break his promises.  He'd made this decision based on no evidence that Sherlock could discern, but Sherlock so badly wanted it to be true.  At least when it came to John.  So he would make it true.  Right now. 

He approached Harry from behind.  She was still screaming, but she wasn't seizing.  He could tell from the wetness of her voice that she was sobbing, too.  Sometimes that meant she had soiled herself, sometimes it meant she was hungry.  Sometimes it meant it was Tuesday.  Sherlock forced himself closer, and to walk around so he could see her front side.

His eyes flicked over her face, which was tear-streaked and miserable and confused and nearly blank.  What did she need?  Or was it nothing?  It was probably nothing.  He went through the routine he had seen John go through: he brushed her hair from her face and touched her forehead.  No fever.  He touched the pulse point on her neck.  Fast, but not faster than it should be for someone as frightened as she was.  He checked the water contraption he had invented before she'd arrived (John still, thankfully, hadn't noticed how much it resembled a hamster waterer; Sherlock doubted he would appreciate the comparison).  Half-full.  He knew for sure she had eaten recently.  He sniffed.

Ah, yes, of course.

Keeping a strict grip on his emotions and his thoughts, Sherlock transferred Harry to the sofa where they'd set up a changing station.  It was a skill he'd developed for a case a while ago, and it wasn't a difficult task to begin with, so it wasn't a challenge.  He was strong enough to lift the woman (a Watson, small like her brother).  He was proficient enough to change her.  And he was, he _was_ , in control enough to not put himself in her position.  To _not_ think about how it perfectly easily could have been him, or could be if he relapsed (he wouldn't, ever).  It was Harry.  Stupid, self-destructive, selfish Harry.  It wasn't Sherlock helpless as a baby, _being changed_ and not even aware of it.

It didn't take long.  He made sure it didn't, because despite his control he was afraid he'd walk out if he lingered.  When the task was accomplished, he put her back, waited a moment to see if she'd start screaming again, and calmly walked back to John.

John turned towards the door when he heard it open. "She okay?"

Sherlock nodded as he stripped and stepped into the shower.  "Didn't like sitting in her own excrement, evidently," he said smoothly, running his hands down John's chest and stomach.

John leaned up and kissed Sherlock lightly. "Thank you." His voice was soft and grateful.

Sherlock smiled slightly, said nothing, and lowered himself slowly to his knees.


End file.
